


with fire & sword

by glim



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, M/M, Magic, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:10:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summoned by his father, Merlin returns to Rome, where he learns about the running of the Empire and forms a relationship with a gladiator.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with fire & sword

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by a prompt kinkme_merlin ( _Merlin is the Roman Emperor (or possibly the emperor's son). Arthur is a gladiator who he becomes obsessed with._ ), though it was never posted on the meme itself. Many, many apologies for any historical inaccuracies that found their way into the story.

"We're here now."

"Thank you, this should be fine. No need to go any further, I can walk the rest of way into the city."

The driver nodded and Merlin gathered his cloak around his shoulders before turning away from the hired chariot and towards the city. The road had been still and dark when they set out, but now a light, cool wind sifted through Merlin's hair, tempering the warmth of the early morning sun. The city would be quiet, with only a few early risers and carriage drivers beginning to mill through the streets and the air holding onto the last, fresh damp edge of dawn.

Merlin drew in a breath and with it drew his senses in close around him to listen to the distant clop of the horses' hooves as their driver lead them away. If he concentrated harder and let his senses reach out, he could almost hear the sounds of the muted morning hours before the city came awake, the creak of the horse-drawn carriages and the scent of dust and damp air; he could almost see the lines of the curia sharp against the lightening sky.

Merlin let the breath out with a reluctant sigh and stretched his limbs to free his senses; such precision took energy and he'd already expended too much. Despite the quiet and the dark, the journey into the city had exhausted Merlin. It was his own fault, he knew that, but this morning might be one of the last ones he would be able to spend walking the road into the city on his own without being recognized.

While Merlin had been gone, the seasons had changed from summer, to autumn, to winter, and now, when the year was starting to unfold again into a warm spring, he'd been summoned home three months before his scheduled return. The rawness of the season seemed to catch him in the heart; he shouldn't be here, not yet, not because he'd been called back to Rome, not because he was suddenly needed.

Merlin closed his eyes against the thought and thanked the gods that he'd never been given the gift of future sight. He couldn't even imagine knowing, or feeling, what it would be like when --

Merlin stopped himself and opened his eyes. He smoothed his hands down over the toga he'd changed into before entering the city and tucked his arm into the fold. All he had to do was finish his walk into the city, then he could let the already ragged grip he had on his magic slip. He could think about his homecoming when he arrived home and the city rose up above him, brilliant and bright in the morning sun.

By the time he reached the imperial palace, the sun had fully risen, the city had filled with noise and people, and Merlin let the magic that blurred his appearance dissipate with a moment's sigh of relief. When he turned to the imperial guard, it was as if he had been standing there for more than a few seconds and as if he had entered the city in a manner befitting the son of the man who ruled Rome.

The guard bowed, briefly, and Merlin followed him into the palace. The emperor's day had already started before his arrival in Rome and soon Merlin's days would follow the same pattern.

~

"You'll come with me to the Senate house today, and later to the temple. The day shouldn't be too long, but you can go to the temple on your own if I can't join you."

Merlin frowned. His father's secretary caught the expression on his face and Merlin quickly forced it into a more neutral one. "I've already spent weeks with you doing this, Father."

"Yes, well, you were a boy then."

"But--"

"And you hardly paid attention. You're lucky you had an indulgent father who trusted you'd figure most of the business out on your own."

"I don't need to do this all again. Besides, there will be plenty of time."

"No," Gaius Claudius said in a softer voice and rested a hand on Merlin's arm, "you need to be ready."

"I don't want to be," Merlin said and only after realized how very much like a boy he sounded in that moment. An empty, cold feeling settled inside him, one that he'd become familiar with in the past few days since his arrival in Rome, and he lowered his eyes to the parchment spread over the table in front of him.

When he raised them, he noticed Father had sent his slaves and secretary from the room, leaving the two of them alone. He drew Merlin in closer and touched Merlin's arm, then his shoulder, when Merlin sat next to him.

"You aren't a boy anymore and you aren't merely the son of a senator. You need to be ready to take on the duties of emperor should I pass away before--"

"No," Merlin said this time, though, unlike his father's, his voice broke as he did so. "I didn't come home for this. I only came because -- you summoned me, and I couldn't say no, I couldn't --"

"Oh, Merlin. I've been selfish, calling you home from Athens in the middle of your studies, but I couldn't bear to have you away much longer." Gaius Claudius's face fell into a frown and his hand fell from Merlin's shoulder to shuffle the letters and reports into a neat pile. For the first time, Merlin realized how much older he looked and how the years as a general and emperor of Rome had worn him down, how much slower his hands and dimmer his eyes were becoming. "We should've had you earlier, before your sister, even. If only the gods could have granted us that."

"Father, no. You had me at the right time, both you and Mother." Merlin hazarded a smile, but ended up resting his head on Father's shoulder anyway, recalling how he'd sat in his Father's lap to watch him work so many years ago, how it had felt like a game then, one that he only got to play with his father.

"I'm not ready for this," Merlin said.

"I know. Neither am I," Gaius Claudius replied and Merlin couldn't help but smile again at the honesty in his voice.

~

Merlin tried, once, a few days later, to stop time in an attempt to hold onto all his memories of his father before they faded into a past he could no longer reach.

He walked into the atrium and as soon as his father acknowledged him, he held up one hand and intervened in the movement of time and space until they stood as still for him as he could force them. He felt the coolness of the floor and the warmth of the air, the great weight of the masonry that made up the imperial fora, the rush of life outside the walls of the building.

In that moment, Merlin brought to mind the memory of his father coming home from his last great military triumph, still clad in the uniform of his regiment, lifting him high into the air and kissing him when he laughed at how silly his Papa was. He remembered playing knucklebones with his father during the long, rainy afternoons after his lessons finished and learning from both his father and sister how to wield his first practice sword.

He remembered the last time he called his father Papa, and how his father had nodded and smiled briefly during his coming of age ceremony.

His magic faltered then and the spatial and temporal hold Merlin had put on the world collapsed. The noise and activity of early morning business in the palace filled the room and Merlin stood, helpless in the middle of it all.

The emperor of Rome was dying and there was nothing Merlin could do.

~

Tucking one arm inside the fold of his toga, Merlin leaned closer to the edge of the box to watch as the procession came to an end and the gladiators arrived to salute the emperor. The games for the a three day festival started today and, from the looks of gladiatorial assembly, new fighters had been brought in for the celebrations.

Father would be pleased. He'd always enjoyed the spring and summer festivals the best and his only regret was that he couldn't sit with the people, rather than with the Senate or the imperial family.

The afternoon sun shimmered off the sand in hazy waves and a murmur of anticipation rose up off the assembled crowd. The games scheduled for today were not to be the most elaborate -- no beast games, and the naumachia would be held during the next great public festival -- but the people were restless for new entertainment. Gaius Claudius Marcellus doled out games to the populace the same way he did grain: enough to keep them from going hungry, but not enough to sate their -- or his own -- appetite for more.

Merlin leaned even closer to the edge and squinted. Despite having no great taste for the amphitheatre himself, Merlin had accompanied his father here, as he'd attended him at both the Senate house and the Temple, as often as possible since his return from Greece. Though he would have preferred the cool, quiet of the imperial library to heat and noise of the arena, he couldn't refuse his father. Not after that morning in the atrium, when both memory and realization had come over him in one painful moment.

The early summer afternoon pressed on him, the sunlight and air heavy against his skin. The springtime, with its fresh, damp mornings and chilly evenings, had passed so quickly A thought skittered along the edges of Merlin's mind and he chased it away. Later. There would be time in the days to come, to think about how the future would shape him and how the coming autumn and winter would unravel around him before he had a chance to capture the hours and days he needed. For now, he would go to the Senate house, to the temple and the arena, mark his father's words and use what magic he could to commit this summer to memory.

The roar of the crowd rose, then fell into a hush and Merlin shook his head, blinking at the brightness of the sun glinting off the sand, and let his eyes settle on the hoplomachi that stood before the imperial box.

 _There._ The one in the very front. Though he carried a similar sword and shield, and wore nearly the same leg armor as the other gladiators of his kind, he stood slightly apart and held his head at an arrogant angle. The crowd cheered again and he tilted his chin up, acknowledging them as if their praise were his due, as if he'd done something more than stand before them with the sun touching his hair in a manner so much like the way it touched the smooth sand.

Excitement tingled at the edge of Merlin's senses for the first time since his return to the city. The munera suddenly held a strange attraction for him: this new fighter, this man with enough bravado to stand before the emperor as if he would challenge the man who ruled Rome itself, intensely proud and intensely aware of the fact that all his blood might be spilled over that sand today.

Perhaps the strong set of his shoulders would be broken and his unscarred chest would be torn and bloody by the end of the games, and perhaps he longed for such a painful death. Perhaps he'd come to Rome, unwilling and proud and defiant, and would only leave the city by dying there.

Merlin's fingers curled into a fist, hand still hidden by his toga, and held his breath.

The first fight was given to a different hoplomachus and as he came to face his opponent, Merlin sat back into his seat, unsettled by the mix of anticipation and disappointment he felt.

The uncomfortable sensation lasted until his gladiator -- yes, _his,_ he would claim him, give him a name if he had none, hold the spark of desire inside his heart for a man who might die before him in a few minutes -- stood to face his opponent. They were well matched; a hoplomachus and a murmillo, both carrying shields and swords. The murmilo carried the shield of the Roman legions, but it was the small, round dragon-shield of the proud hoplomachus that caught the powerful sparking rays of the sun.

The fight was quick and fierce. The two men faced each other for a minute, quiet and tense, before beginning the fight with a loud clash.

The hoplomachus seemed to take great pleasure in defeating his opponent as quickly and as violently as possible. He disarmed and wounded the other gladiator with precision that could be called merciless, were it not for the incline of the hoplomachus's head as he stood over his enemy and the graceful curve of his shoulders.

The crowd urged the death of the murmillo, but his opponent gave a tiny nod and backed away when he begged mercy and placed his shield aside. The attention shifted to the imperial box, the noise of the crowd falling, then rising again when the emperor stood.

The people continued to urge the death of the fallen gladiator, their cry of "Kill him! _Iugula!_ " shouted as if with one voice. The hoplomachus held his sword, poised and still, and made the death of his opponent a swift, clean one as soon as the emperor gave the signal.

The sense of heart-racing anticipation returned, and Merlin leaned forward in the imperial box. It would be too much, too indiscreet, too indulgent, for the son of an emperor to keep a gladiator, but there had to be some way for Merlin to get to know this man without drawing on the power of the imperial family.

"Merlin, is it me, or are you actually enjoying yourself?"

Merlin suddenly schooled his features and hoped the effect was more grave than guilty. He'd accompanied both his parents to the games, but it was his mother who'd noticed his sudden, rapt attention.

"Maybe?"

"Hm." Mother considered him for a moment, her mouth pressed into a barely suppressed frown of curiosity, and reached over to pat his arm. "It's good to have you here with us."

"And I'm glad to be here. Really glad," Merlin added, resting his hand more securely atop his mother's for a second, and turned back to the arena in time to see a flash of gold blond hair and proud expression before the next fight began.

~

"Will you come? Please say yes."

Morgana looked up from the parchment spread over her writing table. "You never used to like the games. You _cried_ the first time we took you."

"Morgana, I was four. It was frightening. Besides, I still don't like the beast games. Or the sea battles. Or, well, any of them, actually." Merlin paced across the room twice, then settled on the couch and slid his sandals off his feet. "Are you writing to Lucius?"

"He wants to hear about the children. You know how he misses the boys, and he's never even seen Claudia. I don't think he'll be able to leave his legion and be back in the city before the end of the summer, or even autumn."

"He misses you, too."

"I suppose he does. Though, sometimes, I suspect we're fonder of each other for the missing." Morgana glanced over her shoulder at Merlin with a faint smile and shrugged before turning back to her letter. "Unlike you and I."

"Rather unlike." Merlin shifted on the couch to watch his sister continue her letter writing.

For as long as Merlin could remember, there had been rumors about him and his sister: that both were fathered by men other than the emperor; that they loved each other in a way that was too great and too intimate for a brother and sister; that they had both been blessed by the gods and that some strange power threaded between them.

Only one of those assumptions was close to correct.

Months before he was born, Morgana had told their mother that the baby would be a little boy and that she'd already named her brother. The imperial family still called him by the name his five-year-old sister had given him; throughout Rome, he was called Marcus Claudius Marcellus.

When Merlin was three years old and curious about the colorful fish in the garden pond, Morgana had rescued him from the piscina mere seconds after he'd fallen in, and had dragged him dripping and coughing to their mother's chambers. When Helena Drusilla asked her daughter how she'd known to leave her lessons and look for Merlin, Morgana had clutched Merlin's hand a bit more tightly and replied that she'd already seen him fall.

She'd sat with him when he was nine and suffering from a terrible fever, confident he'd recover, and cried the day before he departed for Greece, though her letters to him never mentioned what, aside from the distance that separated them, had saddened her so much.

Now, months later, Merlin suspected that her sorrow had stemmed from her having already seen what would bring him home.

It might take weeks, or perhaps months, but soon everything would shift. Whatever freedoms Merlin had as the son of the emperor would disappear when he took over the imperial throne.

 _If._ If he took the throne. Perhaps in the coming weeks he'd learn to gather what power he had about him and learn to pause time, to save his father, to save the city and empire from an unprepared and uncertain ruler.

"Merlin? Why do you look so distressed? What's wrong? Are you well?"

"I… what? Oh. I'm all right. I'm … still tired from all the excitement of spending the day in the Curia." Merlin sat up and rubbed a hand over his face. "What were you asking?"

"You've never found Senate meetings exciting." Morgana kept writing as she spoke. "And I still want to know what's suddenly so interesting to you about gladiatorial combat."

"Come with me for the festival games and I'll show you."

"Merlin, please don't tell me you've taken to gaming now that you're home." Morgana set aside her writing instruments and turned from her desk. "You're not that much of a fool, are you?"

"No! No, I'm not… it's not gambling, I promise. Please come? Morgana?" Merlin slid from the couch to pad over to his sister and touch her shoulder, feeling her familiar magic spark over his senses. "Everything else, since I've come back to Rome, has been... It's been so strange, like I can't remember what it was like to live here before ... before I left. Please come?"

Morgana's eyes fluttered shut and a sadness came over her face briefly. She leaned into Merlin's touch, then recovered in a moment. "All right, but only for one afternoon."

Merlin grinned. "I'll take the boys next time, so you won't have to endure all the games."

"Fine, don't tell them that. Lucullus will never stop pestering you to take him, and Marcus is too small to understand, but will pester you all the same." Morgana had gone back to her writing, but Merlin could see a grin flicker over her face.

~

"Him."

"Oh, dear. _Him?_ "

Merlin narrowed his eyes and cast a glance over his shoulder at his sister. "You haven't seen him fight yet. He is -- " Merlin paused and considered. He wouldn't be able to hide his enthusiasm from Morgana, but it would be wise to not make a spectacle of himself in public. " He is remarkable."

"Only because I avoid the amphitheatre as much as I can manage. You're as bad as Father, dragging me out here to watch blood spill over sand for no reason other than the people are bored." Morgana settled back into her seat, smoothed the palms of her hands down over the pale blue silk of her stola, and curved her lips into a small, tight smile. "What about him is so worthy of remark?"

Not able to resist looking back toward the gladiatorial assembly down in the arena of the amphitheatre, Merlin narrowed his eyes further.

From the imperial box at the amphitheatre, Merlin could barely make out the features of the man he sought. But he knew, even from his distance, that the sun would glint off his hair in the manner that it did off the sand, both bright and gold, and clean of sweat or blood.

"He's still new, but he's won every match he's participated in since coming to Rome."

Morgana made a thoughtful sound. "I can't even tell the hoplomachi apart. What makes him so special? His shield is slightly less battered his sword still sharp? Oh." She gasped softly at the sight of the device on the gladiator's shield: a great gold dragon, rampant. "Oh, no, Merlin, no, he's not... You shouldn't."

Merlin only rested his hand against his sister's. Her skin was cool against his palm and the grip of her fingers, when they intertwined with his, was certain and strong, the same protective gesture he could recall from their childhood. The one that meant whatever was happening before Morgana's eyes had already happened in her dreams, that she'd seen some shadow of the events before her already played out in her sleeping mind.

"You don't need to protect me. Not even from myself."

There was another murmur from the crowd, then a cheer as the gladiatorial assembly stood before the imperial box.

"Don't I? Who looks after you the way I do?"

Merlin clasped Morgana's hand more tightly and let the winding, green thread of magic that coursed through her wind around him. "Nobody."

Morgana's hand squeezed his and she glanced at him, her eyes clouded with worry, before nodding for him to continue.

"He was brought from Britannia, the son of a warlord, or so they say, and he is called Regulus in the games."

"Surely, that's not his real name?" Morgana gazed down at the arena and gave Regulus another look. "Though, well, it does suit him. Look how he struts about, the little king."

Merlin shook his head in reply to Morgana's question, but laughed in reply to her moment's judgment of this man who had captivated him so. Enough that Merlin could feel the tug of curiosity and desire as soon as he saw the man; he knew then, as he watched Regulus give both Morgana and himself a cursory bow, that he would just keep on tugging back at that sensation.

"He's proud of his skill in the games."

"He's arrogant," Morgana said.

Merlin smiled. "Yes. Maybe it keeps him alive."

He was a talented warrior. Better than some of the men Merlin had seen on the Campus Martius, stronger and faster, and accomplished with his weaponry. That would be enough to draw the attention of any young nobleman. It would be enough if Merlin were the son of a senator to summon Regulus to his home or to, possibly, visit the man in the gladiators' barracks. It would be enough to claim he admired the man's fighting enough to want to celebrate it. A senator's son could bring a gladiator into his father's house and invite his friends to dine; it would only be another spectacle in which both he and the gladiator could perform.

It would be too much for an emperor's son to even consider.

His first thought, upon watching the man with the dragon-shield fight in the area, had been to summon him to the palace. He might as well have considered inviting an actor or a street performer; his father, for all his love of the games, would never allow it.

Merlin might, however, fashion a plan to visit Regulus himself, just as the son of a senator might.

Merlin held onto the thought, intending to save it for later, and gazed down into the arena himself.

Today, Regulus fought with a careful brilliance, defeating his opponent with a few fast, sharp movements and laying him low with such a relentless blow that a shiver went through the crowd in the amphitheatre. He did obeisance to the imperial box and when he turned to bow to Merlin, the sun glanced off the gold dragon in his shield so bright and so clear that Merlin felt his breath catch in his chest.

The pain came sudden and sharp, a blow to his heart, felt deep inside and with it came the knowledge that it was one from which he would never recover.

Merlin shuddered and sought out the cool, strong grip of his sister's hand as soon as her fingers brushed against his. Merlin let the sensation of her magic, her power and strength, wash over him again before he eased his hand free

"Everything will be fine," Merlin said.

Next to him, Morgana shifted in her seat. "I hope so."

~

The night after his visit to the arena with Morgana, a restless fever came over Merlin in his sleep.

He dreamed of a great dragon, its wings beating high above the forum while gold flame arced across the sky above the city. The forum lit up, bathed in a preternatural glow brighter than the midday sun, and Merlin stood at its center and felt the warmth of the dragon's fire sink into his skin.

He tipped his head back and opened his mouth and though he uttered no words, the dragon swooped down and hovered before Merlin in reply to the silent summoning. The roar that came from Merlin -- from all of him, as if his whole body had let out the sound and it reverberated through all of Rome -- sent the dragon back to the sky.

Merlin ducked as fire and wind rushed around him; he covered his eyes and felt, in one moment, as if he were both the dragon and its master. He lowered his arms from his head when the sound died down and a gold coin dropped from the sky and spun to the ground at his feet. The forum was empty once more, the marble buildings white against the dark night sky.

Slowly, Merlin bent to pick up the coin and figured its edge. He saw his reign proclaimed in the inscription on the coin, his own head wreathed in laurel, and on the obverse side, the dragon frozen in time and space, golden and rampant once more.

~

The city was still dark and quiet when Merlin woke. His sheets were damp, as if he'd sweated out the fever between dreams, and his throat rough and dry.

He splashed cold water on his face, imagining that he could still feel the heat of the dragonfire on the back of his neck and hear the roar of the dragon inside his ears. It had burned right through him, leaving his skin fever-warm and his throat hot and rough, and even now, hours after the dream had passed, he felt flame-licked and fragile.

He put on a clean tunic and veiled himself to kneel before the gods of the imperial household and family; by the time the first hour of day arrived, the warmth had suffused through Merlin, through his heart and limbs, and the sharpness of the pain in his chest had receded into an already familiar ache.

A decision had come to him during the quiet of the pre-dawn hours.

He would seek out the gladiator they called Regulus. He would pull his magic around him like a cloak and put himself beyond the notice of the city's morning crowd. It would be easy enough to make himself near invisible and to claim, once he arrived at the gladiators' barracks, that he was only the son of a senator come to investigate before placing his bets on his current favorite. Or he could say he was the servant of one of the city's great families, sent by his master or mistress to investigate their current favorite.

Merlin frowned and pulled the hood of cloak over his head as he walked out into the street. He could never trust any of the imperial slaves to a duty like this. Perhaps his tutor, but Galen had stayed behind in Athens to take care of his own family's business, and, besides, many years had passed since Merlin had thought of Galen as anything less than a friend. He would frown, too, at Merlin's sudden strong desire to know this gladiator and would only remind Merlin of how foolish he was acting in that warm, familiar way he had with Merlin.

Without Galen, though, there was nobody in the imperial household with whom Merlin could trust to communicate with the gladiator for him. Even this plan of his was too risky: his absence would be noted after a while, and his magic wasn't strong enough to hold the illusion for frequent, extended periods of time. Already Merlin could tell he would be exhausted when he returned to the palace from seeing this gladiator.

Merlin frowned at himself. He would have to learn the man's real name as soon as he could, for neither "the gladiator" and "Regulus" matched the image in his mind of the man with the golden hair and the dragon shield. He was more than that, Merlin knew, more than a slave to the arena made to play the part of a petty king of the circus.

As Merlin had predicted it would, his magic enabled him to slip through the city unnoticed and into the gladiators' barracks, and thence to gain admittance to see the man whom he sought. He made himself insignificant, the second son of an undistinguished senatorial family, and blurred both his appearance and others' perception of it. Soon enough, he reached the inside of the barracks and found the section where the hoplomachi were housed and stopped at and stood in the doorway to a small cell.

"Hello." Merlin swallowed hard and nearly choked on the greeting. He must look a complete fool, his hand gripping the edge of his cloak in a nervous manner, his voice shaking despite his efforts to keep it firm and steady, his eyes darting around the small cell.

"Hello." The man nodded briefly and gave Merlin an expectant look. Up close, his hair was quite fair, and his eyes a clear, bright blue. When Merlin remained silent, his expression edged from curious to annoyed. "Yes? Did somebody send you? Or are you one of the servant boys? Are you lost?"

"You speak Latin," Merlin blurted and immediately felt even more a fool. "I meant -- "

"Of course I speak Latin. How else would I get by in this godforsaken city? How do you think I negotiated peace between your army and my people?" Regulus rose from his seat on his bed and put both his hands on Merlin's shoulders to turn him around and shove him from the doorway. "Go on back to Polyxenes and tell him I said he needs to train his boys better."

"I'm not a servant! I'm--"

Regulus raised his eyebrows and waited. The heavy, warm, strong weight of his hands still rested on Merlin's shoulders and his grip tightened when Merlin shifted slightly. "You're…? Who? Oh god." He sighed and shoved at Merlin again. "Tell your mistress that I'm honored, but not interested and sending one of her freedmen won't convince me, no matter how pretty he is."

"What do you mean you're not -- oh." Merlin writhed out of Regulus's grip and smoothed his hands over his cloak and prayed they didn't shake with either rage or desire. "You really are arrogant," he muttered. "I'm neither of those, thank you."

"All right, you're neither slave nor freedman. So I suppose you think that gives you some right to just come here and annoy me," Regulus said and crossed his arms over his chest. "What do you want from me?"

"I wanted to see you."

"Ah. Right. Of course. Like I'm some animal that you can come see at your pleasure. Or maybe you'd like to pretend I'm some war prize of yours, brought home for your triumph. And who do you think you are, anyway? The emperor?"

"No. I'm his…" Merlin paused. The hardness in the man's eyes didn't waver, not even for a moment. "I'm Merlin," he said, simply, and bowed his head before turning to leave.

Of course. It was foolish of him to expect that he would be recognizable for the brief moment that he let his magic slip. Any portrait that the gladiator might've seen of him would've been so idealized that he would have looked like nearly every heir to imperial throne that Rome had ever had. Merlin couldn't even be sure that the gladiator bothered to notice him when he bowed to the imperial box in the amphitheatre. He could've been anyone.

It was foolish to think he ought to have come here, to think that this man, the sight of whom across the arena had struck Merlin deep inside, might've felt something for him, too. The ache in his chest grew duller and the dragonfire that had flamed through his blood died down.

Merlin turned back and gazed at the back of the gladiator's head to see how the tension in his shoulders hadn't eased and how he held himself, cautious, even as Merlin retreated.

"And who are you? Your name… the one you grew up with," Merlin added, softening his voice in the hope that it would urge the man to turn back to him.

"Arthur. My name is Arthur," he replied, glanced at Merlin over his shoulder in return, and then walked back to his narrow bed.

~

The second time he visited the gladiators' barracks Arthur refused to see him.

Merlin knew he could insist; he could shake the glamour from his features as easily as he could let his cloak slip from his shoulders, render himself visible to all around him and claim his right as the heir to the imperial throne to have Arthur brought to him.

Instead, he'd chosen to wear his magic like a cloak and present himself as the youngest son of a senator, a man reputable enough to command respect and irrelevant enough to pass through the city streets quietly. The name he gave was common, a gens that had produced farmers, senators, and soldiers from the days of the old Republic. As long as he allowed it, nobody would have any reason to notice him.

Of course, that also meant that Arthur had no reason to take note of him. The youngest son of a senator -- what sort of business would a gladiator want with him? He wouldn't be able to offer much in the way of money or prestige, and even if he could offer Arthur freedom, Merlin suspected that Arthur wouldn't accept it.

Merlin frowned and peered as far as he could into the barracks. He'd hoped, secretly and silently, that if Arthur didn't feel the same connection he had, then he might at least find Merlin somewhat attractive or interesting.

Merlin left before the guards could ask if he wanted them to summon Arthur again, a strange heavy weight settling atop that near permanent ache in his chest.

~

"You haven't been to the Senate house today? Or yesterday?"

Merlin shook his head and offered the string of large, wooden beads to Claudia, smiling when she offered him a wide, toothless smile in return for the beads. She squealed when Merlin tickled her belly and drooled over her beads when he cuddled her into his lap.

"There's hardly any business left. I sat with Father in his study, instead." Merlin kissed the top of Claudia's head and congratulated her for showing him the beads again. "Your granddaughter thinks she's discovered the most fabulous thing today."

"Ah, well, she is a clever girl." Helena Drusilla stepped away from the window to come sit with Merlin and Claudia, who offered her grandmother the beads, too. "Aren't you, darling? The most clever girl in all of Rome." She took the beads from Claudia, wrapped them double, and handed them back to the little girl with an encouraging smile. "You've been so quiet lately," she said after she and Merlin fussed at the baby for a few more minutes.

"Have I? I don't mean to. It's ..." Merlin frowned and turned his own gaze to the slow patter of rain outside his mother's rooms. "When I first came home, I thought everything was happening so quickly. One day I was in the Senate, then in the temple, and then in the Senate again, to hear the latest debates about provincial government and the intricacies of the law courts. I had no idea what was going on. I thought..." He let out a slow sigh. "I thought I'd wake up one morning and be caught between funeral duties and imperial duties."

"And now nothing's happened." Helena Drusilla gave a sigh of her own. "It will, though." She stroked Merlin's hair and touched his cheek, dropping her hand only when Merlin leaned away from her touch.

"I know. Have you talked to--" Merlin thought of his sister's dreams and what it must be like to dream the day over and over when the city of Rome would change and a new emperor would come to sit on its throne. He pushed away the thought, folded it up deep inside his head, and thought, unexpectedly, of Arthur. "I've been to the games again."

"Yes, Morgana said you had her go with you. And you've taken Lucullus?"

Merlin nodded. His trips to the games and to see Arthur were oddly bound up in his dread and impatience for the worst this summer would bring. How he could tell his mother or Morgana that, he had no idea, and instead kept it a small, folded, secret thing inside his heart. Unlike anything else in the whole city, Arthur he could keep to himself.

"That's good, dear. You need something else to think about." Helena Drusilla brushed her hand over Merlin's hair again, in that fond way she'd been doing for as long as Merlin could remember, and smiled. "But don't let yourself get too distracted, all right?"

"Mother…" Merlin kept his cheek pressed against his mother's hand as long he could, until Claudia squealed at both of them and demanded Merlin's attention all for herself.

~

The third time Merlin visited Arthur, rain was falling and the city was hot, damp, and miserable. The crowd at the most recent public games had been rowdy and dissatisfied, a rather accurate cross-section of the city itself at the moment. The weather had shortened everyone's temper and the most common declaration heard around the imperial palace and forum was that at least the Senate would be out of session soon and they could all leave the city once it did.

Merlin hadn't considered that; he hadn't thought of what it would be like when the summer started and the family left Rome for their house in the provinces outside the city. He wasn't even certain his father would want to leave Rome. In years past, his mother, Morgana, and the children would leave a bit earlier to set up the household, and Merlin would stay in Rome until Father was ready to leave.

This year -- and Merlin's chest clenched at the thought of it -- he wasn't even confident his father would leave the city. He tried to think of the city in the summer, the quiet, relentless midday heat, but his mind flashed to half-remembered images of his grandfather's funeral -- the deathmasks, his mother weeping, his own feelings of smallness, confusion, and fear. It would not be that much different when his own father died, though more than fifteen years had passed. Quickly, he dispelled the images with one of the sun on the sand of the arena, a bright-gold flash of light and a dragon-shield that caught it before it dispersed into a thousand slivers of light.

Merlin paused in front of Arthur's cell. Grief and desire weighed heavy on his soul; the closeness of the city had crowded his mind and the uncertainty of the humid night air put him on edge. Only his desire to see Arthur, to be close to him, was sharper than the sadness he held inside and kept secret from even Arthur himself.

Arthur hadn't sent any word after he'd been notified that Merlin had arrived, and Merlin had accepted that as the closest thing to assent he'd receive from Arthur.

He was stretched out on his pallet, his hair damp and his skin slightly pink, as if he'd been to the baths. Clad only in a loincloth, his body was covered with a faint network of white markings over his arms, legs, and chest that intersected with a few newer, red scars, clearer and more painful looking than they were in the arena.

"Hello."

"Hello," Arthur said and turned to Merlin. "I see you've returned. Now what do you want?"

"To see you again." Merlin fiddled with the fold of his toga. The hem was damp against the back of his calves and the tunic beneath was starting to stick to the sweat on his back. "They told me… they say you are the son of warlord in Britannia."

Arthur didn't reply at once, though his face creased in consternation. "I suppose that's correct. Or, I was the son of a warlord. Of a king."

"What sort of life did you have in Britannia?" Merlin asked before he could stop the eagerness to know Arthur from bubbling up inside him. "You had a kingdom?"

Arthur frowned again. The tension in his body eased and his eyes softened as his gaze settled on Merlin. "I had a kingdom. I had a family. A father, and a wife, and a little boy. I don’t know what's left of any of them."

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, is it? Do you command the armies of Rome?" Arthur scoffed at the idea and the softness on his face wavered, and simply became sadness that settled in the corners of his mouth and around his eyes. "I'm sure they're all gone by now anyway."

The ache in Merlin's chest grew sharper. The fault was his as much as it was as anyone else's and he longed to share that knowledge with Arthur and, alongside it, some offer of recompense. "It must be difficult to be here."

"It is. But no more so than the battlefield. And it was worth it, to save the rest of my people."

Merlin took a step closer. "I can't give you any of that back --"

"Did I ask you to?" The moment of vulnerability that had flickered between them died and Arthur stared at Merlin, his eyes hard and his jaw set. Whatever openness had existed between them had disappeared and Merlin found himself empty with the loss of it and with the uncertainty of how to obtain it again.

"I… no. No, you didn't. You wouldn't, I suppose." Merlin fought the urge to enfold himself more deeply into his toga and instead pulled his arm from the fold to offer Arthur a scroll. "I've brought you something to read. You said you did the negotiations with Rome for your people, so I assumed you could read as well as speak Latin."

Arthur sat up slowly from his pallet. His body was fine and strong, and he moved with slow, measured grace as he reached for the book. "I can. My father made sure I was well educated. What is it?"

"It's only poetry, some Greek lyric translated into Latin." Now that he'd made the offer, Merlin felt himself falter. "I--"

"You did the translations? Well. Hand it over. I'm no scholar, and haven't ever read any Greek, but I'd like to see what you've managed here. I don't know anything about you, either. You might as well let me read your poems."

"I'm the son of a senator."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Do all sons of senators spend their spare moments translating poetry?"

"It's not a lie." And it wasn't; his father had served in the Senate in various capacities during his reign as emperor. "Here," Merlin said and handed over the scroll, realizing he had little else to give Arthur at the moment. "I should go."

"Right." Arthur placed the scroll down carefully on a small table. "Merlin? You can come back, if you like. Maybe during the evening sometime."

"Yeah. Maybe. Might do that." Merlin tucked his arm back into his toga and turned to leave before he gave into the desire to watch Arthur unwind the parchment or to move his own hands over Arthur's body to see if he, in turn, would unravel for Merlin.

~

That night, minutes after Merlin slipped back into the imperial palace, the rain drenched the city. As Merlin lay in bed, he could hear it falling in sheets against the buildings and roads, a steady heavy rain, undisturbed by wind or thunder.

His hair and skin were damp with it as he stretched his limbs out over the clean, cool sheets of his bed. He thought of the dark, wet streets and the overflowing piscina, then, smiling, thought of Arthur.

He'd been too eager, too nervous, to let his thoughts unfold fully in the barracks, but now that he was alone, he mapped Arthur's body out in his mind and let those thoughts unfold and unfold, until it was as if he'd actually had the time to concentrate on the curve of Arthur's shoulder or the broadness of his chest.

He was a beautiful man. Perhaps the phrase was odd, perhaps one Merlin ought not use to describe a gladiator or a barbarian slave, but to Merlin, Arthur was neither of those. He was a warrior, a king and a soldier, a strong, handsome man with hair the color of ripened grain and eyes a blue that seemed to reflect the midday sky.

Tonight, Merlin mouthed the word beautiful and thought of Arthur's shoulders and chest and found nothing odd about the word or the picture in his mind. He imagined what it would be like to press his lips to the point of Arthur's shoulder while he ran his palm over the muscles in Arthur's chest. Would Arthur enjoy that? Would he sigh for Merlin and guide Merlin's hand lower? Would he smile or laugh when Merlin slipped around to sit in his lap? Or would he tumble Merlin onto his bed and begin to bite kisses over Merlin's chest and shoulders?

He would like that, to feel Arthur's body strong and solid above his, and Arthur's mouth all over his skin. Maybe Arthur would strip him first, then tumble him onto the bed, and immediately let his lips and tongue leave shiny wet trails over his chest and stomach.

Merlin gasped softly at the thought and skimmed the tips of his fingers over his chest. He brushed the pad of his thumb over one nipple, teasing it until he thought he'd arch up off the bed from his own touch. He wanted to feel Arthur's mouth here, yes, here, and on his stomach, and on his cock. Maybe he'd kiss Merlin's stomach and smile at the way Merlin writhed for him, kissing and kissing Merlin until Merlin laughed and nudged the tip off his cock up against Arthur's mouth.

Would Arthur even do that? Would be lick over the slit at the top of Merlin's cock, the way Merlin liked, and then swallow him down? Would he do it if he knew Merlin were the son of the emperor? Or would he stroke Merlin roughly and bring him off so suddenly, so harshly that Merlin would spill over Arthur's hand and his own stomach before he meant to?

One hand at his cock and the other pressed to his mouth, Merlin fisted his erection until he was painfully desperate for Arthur's hands, his mouth and his warm body. Though he tried to still them, the images in Merlin's mind blurred, from Arthur's mouth to his chest to his cock, the imagined feel of his skin and breath and body against Merlin's, and Merlin's climax came over him in a sudden hot rush.

~

Merlin waited as long as he could to visit Arthur again, putting time and space between them until he thought he couldn't bear it any more, and then waiting even longer to relish the pain it caused him to wait.

Even outside the gladiatorial school, he gathered his magic about him until he was near invisible and could slip through the shadows undetected. He thought he might watch Arthur for a few moments, but knew the days and weeks of waiting had been too much for that. His breath would catch in his throat and he would give himself away too easily. Instead, he let his magic slip slowly from his senses and knocked at Arthur's door softly.

"Did you read it?" he asked Arthur as soon as he slipped into the room, then ducked his head when Arthur gave him an admonishing look.

"You really are the strangest boy." Arthur motioned for Merlin to come sit next to him on his pallet.

"I'm not a boy." Merlin sat down, his earlier enthusiasm diminished by Arthur's rather obvious lack of it, and glanced at Arthur. Like Merlin, he was clad in a simple tunic today, but his feet were bare and he looked tired from the past few fights in the arena.

"All right, you're not. But you are strange." He held Merlin's glance for a few long moments and touched Merlin's arm. "I wish I could figure you out."

His enthusiasm almost completely gone, Merlin dropped his gaze down to his lap. For a brief time, it had seemed as if Arthur might move in closer to him, tighten his grip on Merlin's arm and, perhaps, if any of the gods had heard Merlin's silent, desperate plea, touch his mouth to Merlin's.

"Here, don't..." Arthur's hand slid down Merlin's arm to touch his hand. "You're strange and inscrutable, and I know you're keeping something from me. With my luck, it's something terrible, and I'll end up sold to some senator for --"

"No! No, I wouldn't-- I'm not--" Merlin caught Arthur's hand in his own, but dropped it when Arthur drew back slightly in surprise. "It's nothing like that."

"Ah, so you are hiding something about yourself from me."

"I... Yes. But I will tell you. Soon."

Arthur looked uncertain, then smiled and shook his head. "I expect you will; you don't look the type who can keep a secret."

"Is it all right? That I still come to see you?"

Uncertainty flickered across Arthur's features, but faded when Merlin touched his hand again. "It is. Someday I'll even find out how and why you do. I did read your translation of the poems. Did you attend the games this week?"

"Yes. Well. The ones I could manage," Merlin replied and settled back against the wall behind Arthur's bed to hear how Arthur had fared during the games Merlin hadn't been able to watch. He'd tell Arthur soon, he'd have to; for now, though there just so much pleasure in the anonymity he'd fashioned for himself. Here, he was just Merlin, a senator's son. If Arthur saw him as a boy who'd found himself inexplicably drawn to a captive prince and gladiator, and found himself drawn to Merlin in return, then that was enough.

~

At some point, Merlin stopped counting how many visits he'd paid Arthur. His life had fallen into an uneasy pattern. He went to the Senate house and the temple with his father, attended his father while he met with guests and clients. He watched the legions assemble on the Campus Martius and prayed that the day when they would swear loyalty to him was far off.

His father was dying. Merlin knew this, and yet he attempted to push that knowledge as far away from his heart and mind as he could, unable to imagine a Rome ruled by his hand.

Seeing Arthur helped, though Merlin wasn't fool enough to not realize what he was doing, how he was numbing the sharpness of his grief with his desire for Arthur.

Yet, to spend his empty evenings seated in Arthur's room, conversing with Arthur or reading while Arthur tried to stretch the soreness and stiffness from his muscles was easier than staying in the palace and waiting for the summer to end. The closer he got to Arthur, the more he learned about the curve of his shoulders and back and the more he familiar he became with the soft, deep sound of the groan Arthur would give after settling back onto his cot, the harder it became for Merlin to watch Arthur participate in the games. The fascination and eagerness with which he'd first watched Arthur fight had mellowed; the games he was able to attend he did so with anticipation that was always tamped down by the anxiety that he would lose Arthur as quickly as he had found him.

"Do you really have nothing better to do during the evening?" Arthur asked one night, reclining on his bed as if he were at table and eating bread and cheese.

"Well, no. Not really. I like it here."

Arthur snorted and when Merlin turned to him, he shook his head. He looked warm and rumpled, his blond hair sticking up at odd angles after having been washed and scrubbed dry, and he smiled when he caught Merlin staring a few seconds too long. "Your life at home must be dull. Or miserable. What do the sons of senators do with themselves all day?"

"Not much that's worth talking about." Merlin turned away and pretended to pay more attention the tablets he'd brought with him than with the conversation he was having with Arthur.

"You could join the army. Or travel."

Merlin shrugged.

"I would."

"Which one?"

"Either. Both," Arthur amended and Merlin could hear him shift on the cot, then rise and shuffle across the small room to where Merlin sat.

Merlin scratched a few notes on his reading into the wax tablet and kept his head down until he felt Arthur's hand settle on his shoulder. This close, he could feel the warmth of Arthur's skin and hear the soft draw and release of his breath. Merlin tensed and his own breath stilled in his chest as Arthur started to rub his shoulder.

"Why are you here, then? I mean in Rome, since you won't tell me why you're here." Arthur's thumb traced a firm circle along the back of Merlin's shoulder through his tunic until Merlin began to relax under his touch. "There. You don't need to tell me everything yet. I want to know you for who you really are."

Merlin nodded. "I was in Athens. My father -- he wanted me to learn philosophy, to see parts of the world in a different way than I would when I took up a position in the army. I thought there'd be time," he said.

The lamp in Arthur's room flickered, the light glancing over Merlin's hands as he took up the tablet to close it and set it aside. He leaned back into Arthur's touch and, for a minute, let him imagine the hundred different ways his life could've been different, how he could've still been in Greece, and how Arthur could've been one of the other young men there, how they could've talked freely and spent all their evenings together. How Arthur could've known all of him, all the tiny secrets he kept from Arthur, the flush of his arousal, the sharpness of his fear and sadness.

Arthur's hand slipped from Merlin's shoulder and stroked his arm. "Shh, don't," he murmured when Merlin tensed again and came to kneel by the chair where Merlin sat. "You'll tell me someday? Why you came home and why you come here?"

Merlin nodded again, smiled, and glanced away as Arthur's hand cupped his cheek. "I will."

"All right." The thumb that had stroked along Merlin's shoulder touched the edge of his bottom lip and brought Merlin's breath to a stuttering edge. "All right," Arthur said again and hesitated. His touch neared the corner of Merlin's mouth and he bent forward slightly before pulling away. "I hope that day is soon."

Merlin blamed the too loud beat of his heart and the too quick pace of his breath for letting the moment pass. He could've pressed his mouth to Arthur's, could've told him everything and let at least one of the barriers between them dissolve into the warmth of their bodies as they moved against each other.

Instead, he took up his tablets and his reading and reluctantly bade Arthur a good night.

~

The week that passed after that night in Arthur's cell, all Merlin could think about during his free moments was the brush of Arthur's thumb against his mouth. The touch had been so much warmer and more gentle than he would've expected, and even the memory of having been touched sent desire through him.

Sometimes the memory would come upon him unaware and catch him at the oddest moments. While he pulled on his toga in the mornings, while he sat in the Curia to hear the Senate debates, while he listened to petitions, and while he reclined at table with the various members of his family who were spending more time with his parents now that summer was drawing closer and they would soon be leaving for the provinces. During all those times, a fleeting thought of how warm and how gentle Arthur could be would enter his mind, and he would flush warm all over, or shiver with desire as if he were cold.

Tonight, stretched out on one of the stone benches in the garden, Merlin gazed up at the night sky and let his mind wander. Inside, Morgana was talking with their parents and some cousins over government in the provinces and every so often a burst of laughter or good-natured argument would sound from the dining room. Merlin had left the table when the discussion became more theoretical than practical and when the wine he'd drunk had begun to blur his thoughts.

He thought of Arthur and of his dream of the great dragon that hovered over Rome and heeded Merlin's call; he thought of how clear and bright and brilliant Morgana's voice was, how he'd hand the city and empire over to her if he could, how he knew already that he wouldn't be able to take his father's place without his sister at his side; how badly part of him wanted to leave the city, to run away to Athens or Alexandria, and to take Arthur with him and to fashion a new life for them both.

Merlin sighed, then smiled at the sound of Morgana's footsteps on the porch and down the few steps to the seat by the fish pond.

"What are you thinking about?" She asked and returned his smile when he looked over to watch her.

"Nothing. The stars. Is dinner nearly finished?" Merlin asked.

"Nearly." Morgana turned from him to gaze at the sky reflected in the pond. "We'll all probably sit outside for a bit, though. You'll rejoin the conversation then, won't you?"

Merlin glanced at the pond and at the sky and hauled himself up to sit on the bench, smoothing his tunic as he did so. "Sure, of course." He searched for his sandals beneath the bench and slid his feet back into them and gave Morgana a little frown when he finished. "Do you ever want to leave? Rome, or--"

"Don't we all?" Morgana asked. Her maid had done her hair in a simple knot at the back of her head and had threaded a silver ribbon of silk between the strands that glinted when she turned her head from Merlin and caught the moonlight. "I would've liked to have gone with Lucius on campaign, or traveled with you to Athens, or with my maid, with Gwen, to... to anywhere."

"But you're happy here?"

"I am. I try. I have the city, and you, and the children."

"And we're all lucky to have you," Merlin replied, thought of Morgana arguing politics with so much more grace than he ever could, and followed her to greet the rest of the dinner party when they entered the garden.

~

Merlin slipped into the barracks unseen as soon as he was certain Arthur had been examined by the gladiators' physician and would be left alone for the rest of the evening. He heard the news secondhand, from a group of friends who'd been at the arena that day and who came to the palace later that evening for dinner. The only thought that had kept Merlin at the table throughout the whole meal was that Arthur would probably want time alone and it would be better for Merlin to wait until after he'd settled himself in for the evening.

When he arrived in Arthur's room, Merlin thought, perhaps, he ought to have given Arthur the whole night to himself. He looked pale and exhausted, dark circles under his eyes, bandages wrapped around his chest and ribcage, and a few fresh wounds across his shoulders and arms.

"Hello," Merlin said quietly when Arthur noticed him. "They told me you weren't well. I brought wine," Merlin added when Arthur blinked at him. "Would you rather I left?"

Arthur shook his head and murmured for Merlin to sit down. His breath caught as he shifted on his bed and he pressed his lips together, trying to hold back any further indication that he was in pain.

As if he could hide that from Merlin now, after Merlin had seen him return, bruised and bloody, from the battle arena so many times already. He'd let Merlin see him hurt and tired and vulnerable, alone and without reserve.

"Arthur," Merlin said and rested on hand on Arthur's leg as he sat on the edge of Arthur's bed. "Are you well enough to talk?"

"I'm only bruised. You'd think I was on my deathbed to hear you talk. What's wrong?" he asked and frowned at the way Merlin stayed so still and silent.

"I've been... I've been coming to see you all these weeks, and it's been so good. You've been... I miss watching you fight, but you keep facing more and more vicious opponents. And my time isn't my own, not really."

"Merlin..." Arthur leaned up on one arm and bit back a sound of pain.

"Here, no, don't get up." Merlin slipped in closer and rested a hand on Arthur's stomach to steady when when a shudder of pain went through him. "Maybe we shouldn't talk."

"No, no, now that you've started talking nonsense, might as well continue. Entertain me?" he asked and forced a smile.

"Fine. What I meant to say was, that I'd rather spend time here, or, or anywhere with you, quiet and alone. Rather than watching you fight, that is," Merlin said when Arthur started to look confused again. "But I haven't... I should've told you earlier, about my ..."

"It's not like you know everything about my past, if that's what you mean. And if you mean something else, well. Perhaps you don't really need to say anything about that," he offered and touched the back of Merlin's hand.

"Oh. That, I... I do. I don't think I can, not yet, but..." Merlin bit his lip. "My father is dying," he finally said in a voice that didn't sound like his own, too low and hoarse and hollow.

Arthur struggled to sit up, a wince of pain on his face, and shrugged off Merlin's hand when it came to rest on his shoulder to help him. "Who are you? Really, who are you, Merlin?"

Merlin looked down at his hands. He never ought to have hidden himself from Arthur. "When I first came to see you, part of it was because I loved watching you fight in the arena. I wanted to know what your voice sounded like and what color your eyes were and why I could feel something … what it was I was feeling when …" He rested a hand on his own chest. "There is something between us, I know it."

Arthur frowned again, uncertainty and pain both coloring his expression, and he reached over to touch the back of Merlin's hand again. "Who are you?"

"I'm Merlin," Merlin replied, and smiled when at the sound of impatience from Arthur. "That's, um, that's what my parents and sister call me, and my little nephews and niece. My name is actually Marcus. Marcus Claudius Marcellus," he added and the allowed the magic that blurred his appearance to dissipate fully.

"Oh, god. Oh you idiot. Oh, Merlin." Arthur's fingers slid closer to grip his hand. "You're never to lie to me again."

"It wasn't really a lie."

"Close enough. Never again. If you're right and there is something between us, if the gods have brought us together, then you must let me trust you."

"I do. I shall. I … I can trust you, I know that. I hope you can trust me now, too." Merlin carefully edged further onto Arthur's bed, not letting Arthur's hand go until he was settled in quite close, and then he brushed the tips of his fingers over Arthur's shoulder and down his chest. "Are you hurt very badly?"

"Of course not," Arthur replied, his voice gruff. He shifted slightly and the grimace of pain was on his face once more, though it eased slowly as Merlin kept on stroking his chest.

"Let me help… I can't remove the pain, but I can try to lessen it."

Arthur rested his hand atop Merlin's and shook his head. "It's fine."

"I'm nearly certain it's not. But all right." Merlin slid off his sandals and eased in closer to Arthur. "I can warm you, at the very least."

Arthur made an uncertain sound in reply, but Merlin could feel him relax further as Merlin kept on stroking his chest. "I'm not actually chilled, you know."

"Mm. But it'll help anyway. Are any of your ribs broken?" Merlin asked, skimming his palm carefully down Arthur's side. His magic wasn't the healing sort, but he could find the places that hurt, the ones that felt torn and tender, and could impart that warmth he'd offered to Arthur.

"I don't think so. I'm bruised."

Merlin let his hand come to rest over the wounded spot that radiated the greatest feeling of pain. Here, he sent gentle warmth from his body to Arthur's, then, without thinking, turned to press his face into Arthur's shoulder when a shudder passed through Arthur's body. "There… there, it's all right. We'll drink the wine I brought, and then you will sleep and feel better in the morning."

Arthur shivered, as if a fever were running through his limbs, and he clung to Merlin for a long time before he could speak again. When he did, his voice was quiet and rough, but he sounded better, less pained. "Is it good wine?"

"The best." Merlin smiled into Arthur's shoulder and let out a sigh of relief.

Arthur hummed in reply and let Merlin curl in closer against his side and stroke his chest through the bandages there. He even let Merlin pour wine out for them both and drank all that Merlin told him to. "Your father," he said after Merlin had had some wine himself.

"Yes." Merlin the cup aside so he could rest his hand on Arthur's chest again. "I haven't told anyone about you. About us. I kept you a secret. I shouldn't've have kept myself a secret from you, though."

"And you're going to be--"

"-- yes. Soon. Not too soon, I hope."

Arthur nodded. "I was a prince. A warrior and a prince, at home."

"I would give that all back to you."

"I suspect you would." Arthur turned to brush his lips over Merlin's hair. "I only meant that I know."

Merlin nodded against Arthur's shoulder, glad and relieved at the new warmth between them.

~

"I wish I could bring you to my rooms," Merlin said, a few weeks later, as he reclined on Arthur's bed skimming through a different scroll he'd brought for Arthur. One of the Greek picaresque novels this time. Maybe he'd read part of it aloud later, when Arthur was more mellow and rested.

"And what would you do with me there?" Arthur was back to being able to stretch out the pain and stiffness from a day in the arena. His ribs had healed, but new bruises already showed on his back and shoulders.

"Hm. My bed is nicer..."

Arthur laughed and peered over his shoulder. "You practically take over my quarters, then complain about my bed." Arthur paused, looked at Merlin more closely, then smiled in a different sort of manner. "Oh."

"I meant. Well. Yes," Merlin said, feeling himself flush over his ears, and gazed first at Arthur's lips, and down over his bare shoulders, chest, and stomach.

Arthur laughed and the rich, low sound filled the small room. He crossed his cell to stand, then kneel before the cot and tugged the parchment from Merlin's hands. "Well, then."

He brought one of Merlin's hands to his mouth to kiss the palm before unbelting Merlin's tunic. His touch was light and swift and he was laughing again, the sound quiet and deep against Merlin's shoulder, as he came to rest next to Merlin on the cot.

"It's a small space," Arthur murmured, kissing Merlin's neck, then the corner of his jaw, and nuzzling at his ear. "I hope you don't mind."

Merlin drew in a pleased breath at the tickling sensation of Arthur's lips and breath on his ear, held it for a moment, then exhaled with trembling sigh. "Oh, I don't... I don't care. I would like to feel you this close all evening."

"Hm." The tip of Arthur's nose brushed at the edge of Merlin's ear, still tickling him in a manner that made Merlin shiver, then flush, with arousal. "Shift a bit, all right?"

"What? Oh. Should I...? Oh." Merlin arched up into the brush of Arthur's hand on his stomach and let himself be pushed up onto his side. Arthur's hand came to rest on his thigh and he lined his body up behind Merlin's.

"This close?" he asked. His body was warm against his Merlin's, his cock hard as it nudged up against Merlin's arse, and then harder, hotter when Merlin wriggled back against him. "Ah, you do like it this close, then, don't you?"

Merlin just made a sound of assent; his body slotted right up against Arthur's, his back to Arthur's chest, his own cock straining against the press of Arthur's hand. For a moment, only half a second, he thought of the few other men with whom he'd shared this secret, and how their hands and mouths and cocks and tongues had felt, but the moment fled his memory when Arthur's hand squeezed around his erection. He shifted again, parting his thighs to feel Arthur press between them, and then he only felt the want, the desperate neediness, and the heat that coiled between them.

~

"What would you really do with me? If I could be with you in your rooms in the imperial palace?" Arthur settled back on his bed and held out an arm for Merlin to come rest against his chest.

"Hm. All the things we can't do here. All of them. Take you to the baths, and the gymnasium, and rub you down myself. Bring you to my rooms while you were still warm from exercise, and fuck you in the middle of the day until you were completely worn out." Merlin made a pleased, tired sound at his own fantasy and nestled in closer to Arthur. "And it wouldn't even matter. Because you would belong there with me."

"Well. That doesn't sound so bad, though I'm not sure about this whole living with an emperor situation."

"Benefits? The wine is good. Falernian," Merlin murmured sleepily, then tucked his face in against Arthur when laughed and held him closer.

~

One afternoon, as spring drew to a close, Morgana had promised Merlin that everything would be easier once summer arrived. The Senate would be dismissed for the season, the city would clear out as the rich left for the summer homes in the provinces, and some of their father's duties would ease.

It was hard to recall her words and believe them when she came to him in the middle of a warm summer night, her hair unbound and her eyes shadowed with sadness.

"Will it be soon?" Merlin lit a lamp in his room and sat down on the bed next to Morgana.

She nodded. "I know you don't feel ready."

"I don't think I ever would," Merlin said.

"Me either." Morgana reached across her lap to take Merlin's hand in hers and squeezed it tightly. They sat together, talking in low voices, until the sun began to rise.

Later, Merlin came to know that it was that night, when Morgana brought the news of her dream vision of their father's death, despite all that came after, when his life changed.

~

As the sun set, Merlin veiled himself and knelt before the household gods and prayed for his family, for Rome, and finally for himself. And, as he had weeks ago, he stole out into the night cloaked in magic and secrecy to find Arthur.

"When the emperor offers you the wooden sword, accept it. Accept your freedom," Merlin said. He stood before Arthur and rested both hands on Arthur's chest. "Please?"

"Did you instigate this?" Arthur's voice grew sharp, then softened slightly when Merlin looked away. "Did you?"

"No, it's not-- I just-- I can't keep coming here like this, not with my father--"

"Can I trust you? You said I could, but now you want... I don't know what you want." Arthur turned from him and stood with his face to the wall. "Whatever it is, I suppose you think you can just take it, or magic it, or --"

"Arthur, no." But in a way, Arthur was right. He'd come to Arthur when he wanted, how he wanted, and had left the empire behind while he was here.

"You must let me earn my freedom. How long do I have?"

"Until the start of winter."

"Can you wait for me?"

Merlin nodded. He'd waited once, through those rainy weeks, and could wait again.

 

*

 _In the early years of his reign, the enemies of Marcus Claudius Marcellus claimed he had formed two attachments that would bring about his demise: an unhealthy love for both his sister and the captain of his Praetorian guard. Yet, such worries were only voiced by those who opposed his rule, and faded quickly as his reign progressed and peace was brought to the Empire by means other than war._

 _Marcellus never forced a second marital union for his sister. Her marriage to Lucius Sempronius Metellus resulted in the birth of two sons and a daughter, and in the years that followed his succession, Marcellus named both boys official heirs to the imperial throne. His nephews remained a source of comfort to Marcellus, who never chose to marry, and who claimed that they brought him all the joy and pride that any sons of his own could. Morgana continued to assist her brother in his ruling of the empire until his death, and while her powers as seer may have been exaggerated by the imperial cult in years following her own death, there is no doubt, like her brother, she had been blessed by the gods._

 _The captain of Marcellus's guard, called Regulus during his time in the gladiatorial arena, and later Arcturus for his fierce defense of the emperor, had been called Arthur in his homeland of Britannia, though only Marcellus himself called his captain by that name. It is said that only Arthur was present at the emperor's death and it was he who saw him pass peacefully from this life, and that Arthur claimed instead of attending the munera for the emperor, he would return to Britannia, and observe the appropriate rites for the dead in the forests of his homeland. There were those who blamed him for not attending the funeral; there were more who remembered the duty he had done to his emperor during their living years._

 _~ Suetonius, **Life of Marcellus**_

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [and into plowshares (the homecoming remix)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/716046) by [i_claudia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_claudia/pseuds/i_claudia)




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